Rainy Days
by Shadowcatxx
Summary: A.U. Mathieu is only eight when he's uprooted from his home in France and moved to London, a place he knows nothing about. A place he hates, because it seems to hate him. A place where he doesn't understand why people do the things they do. Fortunately, he has two goofy neighbours; a really loud best friend; and a teacher who blushes every time his Papa smiles. FrUK. FACE family ;)


**DISCLAIMER:** _ **Hetalia: Axis Powers**_ – **Hidekaz Himaruya**

 **AND** _ **The Weight of Water**_ **– Sarah Crossan**

 **RAINY DAYS**

WARNING:This story is intended for a mature audience and contains themes that some readers may find offensive. Thank-you for your attention :)

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Please excuse my taking liberties with some character names & relationships.

* * *

CAST OF CHARACTERS (in order of appearance):

CANADA — Mathieu Bonnefoi

FRANCE — Francis Bonnefoi

RUSSIA — Ivan Braginsky

PRUSSIA — Gilbert Beilschmidt

SPAIN — Antonio Fernández Carriedo

ENGLAND — Arthur Kirkland

AMERICA — Alfred Jones-Kirkland

ROMANO — Lovino Vargas

ITALY — Feliciano Vargas

NETHERLANDS — Lars van den Berg

* * *

Heathrow Airport is the busiest airport in all of Europe. I read that on Wikipedia before we left France. It's one airport busier than Charles de Gaulle, which is really big and busy, too. I had never been in an airport before today, or in an airplane, or to England. Neither has Papa, but he pretends to know what to do, even though he can't read English that much better than I can, and he's twenty-six. I'm only eight.

People are always mean to Papa when they find out that he's twenty-six and I'm eight. They're not mean out loud, but mean inside their heads and on their faces. I don't know why, because Papa is a really nice person. He would never hurt anyone. He's my favourite person in the whole world.

"Hold onto our documents, Mathieu," Papa says, because his hands are full. He's carrying all of our _worldly possessions_ —that's what he calls the luggage—in his hands and on his back, like a mountaineer.

"Give our passports to the lady," he says when we reach the front of the queue. The counter is tall and I have to stand on my toes to reach the lady's hand, but after a minute she stamps our passports and hands them back, and Papa says: "Good boy, Mathieu," and I'm glad that I've helped. I tuck our passports into my coat pocket and button it, because I don't want to lose them, because Papa gave me a job and I don't want to let him down.

"Stay close," Papa says as we exit the airport. I hold onto his coat belt so I don't get left behind.

There are people everywhere, and it's raining.

"Welcome to London," the taxi-cab driver says.

* * *

Papa rents a flat and tells me that it's our home now, but just until he can afford somewhere nicer. Somewhere I can have my own bedroom, he says, but I've never had my own bedroom, so I don't mind sharing.

It's called a _studio flat_ , because it's only one room.

I go to the window and look out. The part of London we live in is grey. The sky is grey, and the buildings are grey, and everything is made of grey concrete, even the ground. There are no trees or flowers or grass, not even in the playground below our window. It doesn't look like the seaside, where Papa and I lived in France. We had a small flat there, too, only two rooms, but we had a garden with a lemon tree, and a view of the sea, and the air was much cleaner and didn't smell like car exhaust.

When Papa asks what I think of London, I smile and hug him because I don't want to lie.

* * *

My school is ten blocks from our building—ten blocks, seven traffic lights, three turns, and one-hundred-and-twenty-two stairs from our door (we live on the sixth floor). I have to hold onto Papa's hand, even though I'm eight, because I keep forgetting which way the cars are coming from. There are signs and arrows to help people like me, but they're all in English, so they're not helpful at all, because my English isn't very good. Today we leave early to stop at the shops, and Papa buys me rubber boots so my feet stay dry on the walk. (Yesterday my feet got wet and stayed wet all day.) He lets me choose a bright red pair with little blue umbrellas, then exchanges the last of our euros for pounds to pay the cashier.

Even the money is different here.

Papa kisses me and says goodbye at the school's gates, then goes to his job. In France, he was a _chef_ , but here in England he's just a _cook_.

I go to private school, now. That's what it's called here in England, even though everyone else goes to private school, too, so it's not private at all.

I walk by myself to my classroom and take off my coat and boots. I'm always the first to arrive, because Papa starts work early in the morning, feeding the Londoners breakfast. The only other person here is the janitor, whom I really like but can't talk to because he only speaks Russian and I don't. The other kids are afraid of him—the teachers, too, I think—but I'm not afraid, because I know why he's so quiet. His name is Ivan and he's just like me, a _foreigner_.

Ivan lets me nap until eight o'clock, because that's when my teacher arrives. He shakes me awake before Mr. Kirkland sees me sleeping, so that I look like the perfect student by the time he walks in. (That's Ivan's and my secret.)

Mr. Kirkland is a new teacher. On my first day of third grade he told us that we're his very first class, because he just finished being in school, himself.

I look at Mr. Kirkland and feel disappointed, because I don't want to be in school until I'm as old as him. He looks the same age as Papa, and Papa is twenty-six. I'm only eight. That's eighteen more years of school!

I hate school, but I don't tell anyone.

I hate school because I'm the _new kid_ , because I don't have any friends, because I can't talk to anyone, and because my English isn't good enough to know what's going on. Except for English class, I'm better than everyone else at every subject—especially Maths—but I can't even read the questions right, so I don't ever know what I'm supposed to do and everyone thinks I'm stupid. Even in Maths. The only class I felt good about was French, but I don't feel good about it anymore, because nobody else likes French and they say mean things to me because I'm good at it. They ask me why I left France if I'm so good at it and tell me to go back. I felt good about French for a day, but now I keep quiet when the teacher asks a question, even when I know the answer. I don't want people to tell me to go back to France, because I can't.

I want to, but I can't.

Mr. Kirkland smiles at me when he walks in. He's a nice man. He tries to speak to me in French, even though his French is as bad as my English, but it makes us both laugh.

It's why the other kids call me _teacher's pet_ , because Mr. Kirkland is the only one I like talking to. He doesn't make fun of me.

The morning is longer for me than everyone else, because the first lesson is English. The homework for last night was spelling, and Mr. Kirkland chooses people to write big words on the blackboard to "prove that you all learnt something and didn't just copy down the answers". He doesn't choose me, and I'm glad and not glad about it. I'm glad because I don't know how to spell in English and don't want to look stupid in front of the whole class, but I'm not glad because I'm the only one he doesn't choose, so now everyone thinks I'm stupid _and_ the one the teacher feels sorry for. It singles me out. It makes me _special_ , but I don't want to be special.

I just want to be like everyone else.

"Matthew," Mr. Kirkland says after class. He never says my name right, but I can't be angry about it, because I never say his name right either. He looks at my spelling homework and frowns, because I didn't write words; I drew pictures instead.

I look down, because I know I did the wrong thing on purpose, and now I'm ashamed of it. I don't want Mr. Kirkland to be disappointed in me. I look at my shoes and tell them: "Sorry."

He smiles, but says: "You have to try harder.

"I want to speak to your father after school today."

Those words makes my belly feel sick, and Ivan finds me crying by the back fence at recess. He puts his hand on my head and says something soft in Russian, and it makes me feel better until someone sees. Then everyone points and laughs, because my only friend is the janitor, and I cry harder because I'm ashamed and know that I shouldn't be.

I hate school. I hate England and English.

I want to go home.

When Papa arrives to pick me up, I run to him and don't care who's watching. I hide my face in his overcoat and hug him, even as Mr. Kirkland starts to speak.

He tells Papa that I'm a smart boy, but I'm falling behind because my English isn't good. Papa is offended by that and I'm happy. I'm so happy when he snaps viciously at Mr. Kirkland in his harsh, broken English, even though I like Mr. Kirkland a lot. I want Papa to tell Mr. Kirkland that I don't have to learn English if I don't want to. I want him to make Mr. Kirkland teach me in French instead, but he doesn't. He says:

"What can be done?"

Mr. Kirkland offers to give me private English lessons (everything in England is private, I guess), and then he shows Papa the textbook in his hands. In English, it says: _A Beginners Guide to French_. He's shy about it and blushes when he tells Papa that he's been trying to learn the basics of French to better help me with my lessons.

"Oh," Papa says softly, staring at Mr. Kirkland in surprise. It's Papa's apology-face, the way he looks when he realizes he's made a mistake.

* * *

Now, Papa and I meet Mr. Kirkland every morning at the café Papa works at, and Papa makes us breakfast while Mr. Kirkland teaches me English. Then Mr. Kirkland and Alfred and I go to school together.

Alfred is Mr. Kirkland's son and he's nine, a year older than me. Mr. Kirkland is twenty-six, just like Papa, so he must have been one year younger when Alfred was born than Papa was when I was born.

(I wonder if people are mean to him about it, too?)

Alfred sits across from me and eats his breakfast and plays a video-game and gets yelled at by Mr. Kirkland when he's too loud. Alfred is _very_ loud. Mr. Kirkland jokes that he would benefit from English lessons, too, because he doesn't think that American English is _proper_ English (Alfred grew-up in America), but I don't understand the joke because Alfred's English sounds perfect to me.

When Alfred introduced himself to me, he said: "My name is Alfred Jones-Kirkland!"

I asked him why he had two surnames, and he said it's because his mama's surname is Jones. Alfred's mama lives in America, but he doesn't see her anymore. She left Mr. Kirkland last year. I tell Alfred that she left him, too, but he shakes his head and says he wasn't named in the note. It just said: _Arthur_ , _I'm leaving_. Alfred wasn't mentioned at all.

"Then she didn't leave _you_ ," I point out, trying to make Alfred feel better. But he just shrugs.

"She didn't take me with her," he says, and I can't argue with that.

* * *

I like Alfred, even though he's loud.

I like Alfred _because_ he's loud, because people don't expect things from me when we're together. Alfred talks for both of us.

* * *

It rains every day in London.

Papa says it'll stop eventually, that one day the sun will shine hot and bright, because even grey old London can't hide from the sun forever, but I don't believe him. He says it won't be long before we can play outside, but it is.

It's a _very_ long time.

Because if there's one thing Papa hates more than rain, it's snow.

* * *

It doesn't really snow in London. Or, it doesn't look like snow by the time it hits the ground. Snow isn't supposed to be grey. But everything in London is grey, so Gilbert takes me outside anyway.

Gilbert is a German man, who lives next-door to us. He lives on the left side, and a Spanish man lives on the right side. I've spent a lot of evenings at Gilbert's flat watching cartoons and learning to play chess while Papa and the Spaniard—Antonio—have sex. I don't mind that Antonio has sex with Papa, because he's a really nice man. He's really funny and he smiles a lot and his face is warm like sunshine, even when it's raining out, which it always is. Antonio's whole name is Antonio Fernández Carriedo, which I think sounds really pretty. I asked him why he has two surnames if his parents aren't divorced, like Alfred's are, and he told me that everyone in Spain has two surnames—some people have four or six or eight! It sounded really confusing to me, but I didn't let Antonio know, because his smile is so nice.

I really like Antonio, but Gilbert is my favourite person in England, even though he's not English.

Gilbert's whole name is Gilbert Beilschmidt and he's the coolest person I know. He's really tall and really fast and really good at _vintage_ video-games, and he wears a black leather jacket, even in winter, and he's the only person I've ever seen in real life with red eyes, which are really pretty. He also has the coolest job. He works outside all day on the roads and gets to drive the huge trucks that repair pavement and clear snow. He fixes them too, which is why his fingers are always stained with engine grease. One time, he let me sit in the driver's seat and pull the horn.

Gilbert isn't afraid of anything, which is another thing I really like about him. He's not afraid of heights, like Papa is, or snakes, like I am. But most of all, Gilbert's not afraid to get dirty.

He takes me outside and we splash and play in the grey slush puddles that the Londoners call snow. He kicks a football at me and I kick it back, and he doesn't even frown when it splatters all over him. He just laughs and kicks it at our pretend goalposts, splattering me in revenge.

Football is okay, but hockey is my favourite. Papa jokes that I learnt French by watching too much hockey on Canadian T.V., listening to the Québécois commentators. He says that's where I learnt words that people don't use in France anymore, and why people sometimes smiled at me as if I'd made a joke, even when I hadn't. People thought it was cute.

But Gilbert doesn't think using the wrong words is cute. He thinks I'm old enough to speak properly, not like a baby repeating a T.V. programme, which I think is very cool of him. I like that he doesn't _coddle_ me like Papa—even sometimes when I wish he would. He treats me like I'm eight-years-old, because I am. And he helps me learn English, because he speaks it better than Papa and Antonio combined. He corrects me when I say things wrong, because being wrong is not cute. It's just wrong. Papa scolds Gilbert for being too hard on me, but I just smile because I know there's a difference between being _hard_ and being _mean_ , and Gilbert is not mean. He knows the kids at school won't pick on me as much if I understand what they're saying, because "people are cowards". I don't know why he says that, but I don't really care. I'm glad that Gilbert is here to teach me. I'm never afraid to ask him for help.

(He's not afraid of my questions either, except for one time when I asked him what a _blowjob_ was, because I heard Antonio say it to Papa. Gilbert didn't really answer me. He just said "forty quid", which made Papa and Antonio laugh.)

When we go back inside, Papa has made us hot chocolate. My favourite. Antonio's hair is really dark and wet, and I think he's just gotten out of our shower. He uses it a lot, especially when he doesn't pay his water bill. He smiles at me and says something in rapid Spanish, raising his hot chocolate mug. I cross my arms and pout at him, because I don't speak Spanish and he knows that. But he doesn't repeat it in French or in English. He just laughs and ruffles my hair and then holds out a plate of biscuits as a peace-offering.

Antonio likes to tease me, but it's not mean. It's just goofy. He teases Papa and Gilbert, too.

I asked Papa once if Antonio was his boyfriend, but he just smiled and said no, they're just friends, so I guess Antonio won't ever be my papa, too. I wouldn't mind it if he was, because Papa always looks so happy when he's with Antonio. But if I was allowed to choose another papa, it would be Mr. Kirkland, because then Alfred would be my big brother.

* * *

When Papa said "We're going to England", I didn't think I would be alone.

I knew that I would be different— _foreign_ —but I thought that would make me _exotic_. That's what they called the exchange students at my school in France. They were exotic.

Alfred is exotic because of his American accent, but I'm not exotic because of my French accent. The English kids like Americans better than they like French, so I'm alone until recess, when Alfred comes to find me. He takes my hand and lets me play football with him and his fourth grade friends, and he yells and punches anyone who's mean to me.

I like Alfred a lot.

* * *

At night, Papa and Antonio and Gilbert and I sit outside in the garden, which is a cement square with a bench and a broken basketball hoop. There's one sad little tree that Papa and Antonio and everyone else who smokes uses to put out their cigarettes on. I read a book that Mr. Kirkland gave me, while Papa and Antonio and Gilbert talk to each other in stunted English, because it's the only language all three of them understand. Papa knows French and English and a little Spanish, and Antonio knows Spanish and French and English, but Gilbert only knows German and English (and Dutch, but only bad words). Sometimes Papa and Antonio speak to each other just in French, and it's funny because I can understand them but Gilbert can't, and he gets growly and makes me translate, but I don't always know the right English words for what they're saying.

I'm sitting beside Papa when a couple of men with tattoos start to shout at him. I don't know all of the words, but thanks to Mr. Kirkland's private English lessons, I know that what they're saying is not very nice.

It's not very nice at all, especially when I hear the word "kid" and know that they're talking about me, too.

Papa gets angry, but he would never hit someone. He doesn't like violence. He says that violence never solves anything and that fighting is wrong, but I think the tattooed men disagree. They're loud and they smell like beer, and when Papa doesn't get up to fight they start bullying him even worse, which scares me, because what has Papa done to them? They can't hate him just because he doesn't speak English very good—can they?

Papa has told me that our neighbourhood is not a very nice place, but I've never been afraid of it before now. No one has ever been mean to me outside of school before now. No one has called me names that I don't understand.

When Papa pulls me closer to shield me from all the bad words, one of the men points at me and spits when he talks.

Papa is furious, but before he can reply, Gilbert stands up and punches the man in the face.

The man goes down hard. He hits the concrete and lies there for a minute. His friend shouts and uses a lot of nasty words to describe Papa and Gilbert and I, but when Antonio gets up, too, the tattooed men get scared and leave us alone.

I don't realize I'm crying until they've gone, and Papa whispers: "It's okay, Mathieu, _bébé_ , it's okay. Don't let them scare you. Don't believe a single word they said, because they're wrong, _chéri._ What they said was _wrong._ "

I nod and wipe the tears from my cheeks and look up at Papa. I see that he has tears in his eyes, too, because sometimes when I cry it makes Papa cry, but Gilbert and Antonio are not crying.

Gilbert has blood on his knuckles. Antonio has fire in his eyes.

And I love them both so, so much.

* * *

The last week of school before the Christmas holiday is madness and nobody's class does any work, except for mine. Mr. Kirkland doesn't let us act like lunatics; he makes us sit and take an exam to test how much we've learnt this term. At first I'm nervous about the test, because I still have trouble communicating a lot of things, but by the third question I'm smiling, because not only do I understand all the questions, I know all the answers, too! It takes me twice as long as everyone else to read in English, but I'm still the fifth person to hand in their test. Mr. Kirkland would never show me favouritism at school on purpose, but I know that he's pleased by the way he smiles. Once all of the tests have been collected, Mr. Kirkland declares the rest of the day a party. We're allowed to play games and have snacks—we can do whatever we want while Mr. Kirkland marks our tests, as long as we're not too loud.

I ask Mr. Kirkland if Ivan can join the party, and he says yes, so I run into the corridor where Ivan is working and invite him inside. He and I sit together at the back of the classroom and eat _ptichie moloko_ , which he brought for me as a special end-of-term treat. I've never had it before, but I'll want it again, because it's delicious. Everyone else is really jealous, but no one is brave enough to come over, because everyone is afraid of Ivan except for me.

I know that shouldn't make me happy, but it does.

Mr. Kirkland waits until the last bell before giving me back my test, because he wants to show Papa when he comes to pick me up.

"Matthew got the highest grade in the class," he announces proudly.

Papa makes a noise like a screech and kisses my cheeks. "Oh, Mathieu, _chéri_ , I'm so happy for you! Thank-you, _Monsieur_ Kirkland."

"It's been my pleasure," Mr. Kirkland says, "but Matthew's the one who deserves all your praise. He's worked very hard this term."

Papa gives me a kiss and a little squeeze and then looks right into Mr. Kirkland's eyes, and repeats: "Thank-you, Arthur."

It sounds different this time, maybe because Papa uses Mr. Kirkland's first-name. It makes it sound special.

Mr. Kirkland blushes.

* * *

Papa invites Mr. Kirkland out for supper as a thank-you for helping me study. He takes Mr. Kirkland to his café after-hours for a private supper, which he cooks just for the two of them.

I know it's a date, and Alfred knows it's a date, and Gilbert and Antonio know it's a date, and we all know it's a date except for Mr. Kirkland, who pretends that it's not but says yes and goes anyway.

Gilbert takes Alfred and I out for fast-food and then to Hyde Park to go ice-skating. He rents skates for us at the kiosk, and I'm almost done lacing mine when Antonio shows up with Lovino and Feliciano, whom he sometimes babysits when their grandfather is busy. Mr. Vargas—Grandpa Roma—used to look after Antonio when he was young, too, so Antonio's known Lovino and Feliciano since they were born.

Lovino is eleven and says that he doesn't need a babysitter; he only comes along because someone needs to watch Feliciano, and Antonio can't be trusted to do it right. "He's too much of a big kid, himself," he says, crossing his arms and shooting Antonio's back a suspicious look.

I can't really disagree with him, because it's kind of true. Antonio _is_ like a big kid.

Lovino scowls and scolds us a lot, but he's not a mean person. I think he just has a lot of practice being a big brother. (That's what Gilbert says, and I believe him, because he's a big brother, too.) I ask Lovino if he wants to skate with us, but he refuses like we knew he would. He says it's because he hates ice-skating, but Alfred says it's probably because he _can't_ skate, and he snickers. Then he tugs me onto the ice so that Lovino can't chase after us. Lovino hurls a couple of choice Italian words at Alfred's back before Antonio puts a hand over his mouth. "There are small children present," he smiles, but he says it in a warning voice. Lovino wriggles free, but he doesn't go very far. Even though he complains about Antonio more than anyone else, he always stays close to him.

When Antonio goes to get hot chocolate, Lovino goes with him.

When Antonio goes to the loo, Lovino goes with him.

When Antonio climbs onto a big tree branch to take our picture, Lovino stands below, waiting nervously for Antonio to come back down. He says he hopes Antonio falls, but I don't think he means it, because his eyes are really big and focused.

Feliciano is a lot friendlier than Lovino. He's nine-years-old, the same as Alfred, but sometimes he acts like he's five. Like now. He's not a good skater and he whines every time he falls down, until Gilbert eventually takes his hand. I'm jealous that Feliciano gets to hold Gilbert's hand as we all go around the rink, but I can't pretend to be a bad skater, too, because I'm not, and Gilbert knows I'm not, so that would be a lie. Instead, I race Alfred, and we weave in-and-out of the other people. This is fun until someone in a yellow vest tells us to stop being reckless and asks us where our parents are. Alfred says they're on a date, probably having sex, and the yellow-vest person doesn't ask us anymore questions. She just tells Gilbert—who has skated over with Feliciano—to keep a better watch on us. Feliciano sticks his tongue out at her back and I like him again.

I like him even more when he decides to quit skating and go with Antonio for _churros_ , because it means that Gilbert can play with Alfred and I, now.

He chases us across the ice and I don't skate my fastest because I want him to catch me and spin me around, which he does.

Later, when Alfred and I are unlacing our skates, he asks me in a whisper if I have a crush on Gilbert.

I feel my face get hot when I tell him no, of course not, but he doesn't believe me. He laughs and says: "Yes, you do!" so I shove him, because I think he's probably right.

It's late when we get home. I fall asleep in the taxi-cab with my head on Gilbert's shoulder. Lovino gets to sit in the front passenger-seat, because he's the oldest of us, while Feliciano and Alfred have to squish between Antonio and Gilbert in the backseat, and I have to sit on Gilbert's lap because I'm the youngest, but that's okay.

Antonio calls Papa twice on his cell-phone to make sure it's okay for us to come home, now.

I'm asleep, so I don't say goodbye to Lovino and Feliciano, but I wake up in time to say goodnight to Gilbert. I give him a hug, and Alfred snickers, so I kick Alfred in the shin.

"Thank-you for taking him tonight," Mr. Kirkland says to Gilbert, who waves over-the-shoulder and leaves.

Then Papa kisses Mr. Kirkland on the lips, and Alfred and I giggle.

"Did you have fun tonight?" Papa asks me after they've gone, tucking me into bed.

"Yes." I tell him all about it, then remember to ask: "Did you?"

Papa smiles, and says: "Yes, _chéri_ , I did."

* * *

Papa doesn't have sex with Antonio anymore, or with anyone except for Mr. Kirkland, who I'm supposed to call by his first-name—Arthur—but it feels weird, because he's my teacher.

I ask if I can call Mr. Kirkland Papa's boyfriend instead, and Papa says yes, but only in private, because if my school finds out that Mr. Kirkland is Papa's boyfriend, he could lose his job.

I don't have to worry about that right now, though, because it's the Christmas holiday.

Papa and I are invited to sleepover at Mr. Kirkland's house for Christmas Eve. He and Alfred live in a house, not a flat, and I love it. It's a lot bigger than our flat. It has two floors. It has a kitchen and a dining-room and a lounge that are all separate rooms, two loos, and three bedrooms, but one of the bedrooms is used for Mr. Kirkland's home office, so I have to share a bed with Alfred, and Papa has to share a bed with Mr. Kirkland, but none of us mind. Papa argues with Mr. Kirkland about what he'll cook for Christmas lunch, because Mr. Kirkland wants it to be _traditionally English_ , but Papa wants it to taste good. So they do what they always do and _compromise_ , and Papa cooks while Mr. Kirkland plays a game of charades with Alfred and I. After supper, they let us open one gift each and watch Christmas specials on T.V. while we play, even though Mr. Kirkland thinks they're all _asinine_. I don't know what that means, but it makes Alfred laugh, because Mr. Kirkland said "ass". Alfred and I are both allowed to have eggnog—but without the cognac—which tastes weird, but I drink it anyway because it's a special holiday treat. Papa and Mr. Kirkland drink a lot of cognac and red wine, until Mr. Kirkland starts to hiccup and Papa is singing in French and spinning Alfred and I around the lounge. At midnight, Alfred and I are sent to bed, but we don't go to sleep. We burrow beneath the blanket and play Alfred's handheld video-game until neither of us can keep our eyes open. I don't know when I fall asleep, but when I open my eyes again, it's Christmas morning.

" _Joyeux Noël_!" I cry at five o'clock am.

Alfred shouts: "It's Christmas!" and springs into Mr. Kirkland's bedroom. "Dad! Dad! Dad!" he says eagerly, shaking Mr. Kirkland; trying to tug the blankets off.

Mr. Kirkland swats at him.

"Daaad, _presents_!" Alfred whines.

Alfred and I are told to wait in the lounge for our parents, who "need a minute" before they're ready to come out.

It's more than a minute—I know because I count—and Alfred and I wait impatiently, gazing excitedly at all of the gift-wrapped parcels, which we're not allowed to shake.

 _Finally_ they come out, pour themselves mimosas for breakfast, and watch as Alfred and I rip into the boxes.

Papa cooks breakfast while Alfred and I compare gifts, and then Mr. Kirkland insists that we all get bundled up and go for a walk. Alfred takes his new football and we have a game in the park. I'm not very good at football, but I like being on Mr. Kirkland's team, because he lets me kick the ball, unlike Alfred, who's a big ball-hog.

"Well done, darling," he says, patting my shoulder.

He calls me _darling_ and _sweetheart_ and sometimes _poppet_ , like I'm his son, and it makes me really happy.

So does Mr. Kirkland's smile when Papa kisses him, right in the middle of the park.

I really like that they're in love.

* * *

I see Alfred in assembly on our first day back to school, and I wave at him. He waves back and smiles, pretending that we don't have a secret.

"You're friends with Alfred?" asks the girl beside me.

I nod.

"He's in fourth grade," she says.

"He's totally cute!" says her friend.

I nod again, prouder this time, because I'm friends with the most popular boy in fourth grade. The girls smile at each other and whisper.

"Can we come with you at recess?" the first girl asks.

"To meet him," says the second.

I'm glad I don't have to answer, because we all have to stand and sing "God Save The Queen". (I only pretend to sing, because my accent makes people laugh.)

At recess, I hurry out before the girls can corner me, because I don't want them to come along. I already have to share Alfred with his classmates; I don't want to share him with my classmates, too.

* * *

The girls' names are Abigail and Liza, and both of them are upset that I ignored them yesterday.

Today, Abigail is a Team Captain for gym and she makes sure I get picked last, even though I'm the fastest runner in the class. But she's not very good at Maths and when I'm the last one standing it's her turn to choose, so she has to choose me. She doesn't like that I'm on her team, even though I'm a good runner, and she makes it obvious to everyone by rolling her eyes and sighing, like she's being punished. It's embarrassing, because her friends stare at me and whisper during the game, which makes me mess up and get tagged-out early, and then they laugh and say I'm not as fast as I think I am. Then Abigail and Liza tell everyone that Alfred only lets me play football with him because he feels sorry for me, and I can't even say it's not true, because the truth is a secret.

I'm glad when Mr. Kirkland comes to get us at the end of gym, because he doesn't let anyone talk in his class.

Abigail passes a note to me instead. It says: _Why is your hair so long_? _Are you really a girl_?

She spells _your_ and _hair_ and _really_ all wrong.

It's true that a lot of girls in class have shorter hair than me, but I didn't know it was a bad thing until today. Papa has long hair, too, but people call him "handsome", not "little French girl", which is what Abigail calls me.

When I get home, I take the kitchen scissors and cut my hair while Papa is at Antonio's.

I cut off my curls and sweep them into the bin, hoping that I look more like a boy now, not a girl, but when I look in the mirror I'm upset, because I don't look like Papa anymore. Then I realize that my hair isn't long enough to wear the ribbon he gave me for Christmas, and I cry.

When Papa walks in and sees me, he shrieks.

* * *

The next day, everyone laughs at me.

Papa has fixed my hair, so it doesn't look bad, but it's still short and doesn't look like me, and—even worse—everyone knows why I did it. Abigail showed everyone the note.

I hate school. I want to disappear.

Then, at recess, Alfred sneaks inside and steals scissors from his teacher's desk. He stands in the middle of the playground and cuts off all his own golden hair. When he's done, it's even shorter than mine, but no one laughs at him. And no one laughs at me.

I hate school. But I love Alfred.

* * *

Gilbert says I look cool, like a film star he loved in the 90's.

I _really_ love Gilbert.

* * *

Alfred has an appointment today, and my class' substitute teacher doesn't know about Mr. Kirkland's No Talking rule. By the time the first recess bell rings he's happy to let us go, because he has no control over us— _them_. Alfred's friends don't play with me when he's not here, so I look for Ivan instead. I see him, but he's busy, so I climb the monkey-bars and swing my legs from the top, safe from everyone in my class who thinks it's too high. (I used to think the monkey-bars were too high, too, but Gilbert taught me how to climb them.)

A fifth grade boy climbs up beside me. He's not afraid either.

"I'm Lars," he says.

I nod.

"You're Mathieu, right?"

I look at him in surprise, because nobody in England has ever pronounced my name right. Even Gilbert calls me Mattie.

Lars smiles at me. "Do you like football? I see you playing with Alfred all the time. You're pretty good—even though you're only third grade," he teases. "You're really fast. I play on a team in the park. It's not a real team, just for fun. We play after school. You can come, if you want."

I freeze, because I can hardly believe it. It's the first time I've been invited to do _anything_ with _anyone_ who's not Alfred.

"So—?" Lars cocks his head. He has blonde hair that sticks straight up and a pale scar on his forehead, which looks super cool. He's a really tall boy, and he has pretty eyes. "Will you come?" he asks.

I nod.

Lars jumps down. "Cool," he says, then puts his hands in his pockets and walks away.

I see Abigail and Liza staring me—glaring at me—and I know I'll pay for it later, but right now I grin.

* * *

I'm still grinning about it after school when Papa takes me to the park to play football. He sits on a bench and reads a book while I wait for Lars.

I wait for a long time.

The other boys ask if I want to join in, but I'm too shy to reply. I don't want them to hear my accent and then change their minds because I'm French. I wait for Lars, because he's the one who asked me to come, and he's the one I want to play with. But I'm here and he's not.

I wait and watch the other boys play, but Lars never shows up.

* * *

What a _jerk_!" Alfred yells when I tell him.

I don't want to agree with him, but I feel pretty bad about myself because Lars didn't show up. Papa took me for gelato to make up for it, but it didn't make me feel less rejected.

I hope it wasn't just a mean fifth grade joke, because I really wanted to like Lars.

It would've been nice to have another friend.

* * *

Lars finds me on the playground two days later. He says that he's really sorry about not being at the park, but he went straight home after school, because he was sick. He says he was really sick and he's been "puking my guts out!" ever since. He says he would've called to tell me, but he doesn't have my phone number. He says he made his little sister call Alfred to get it—Laura is in Alfred's class—but Alfred didn't pick-up.

(I don't tell Lars that I don't have a cell-phone, because most of the kids at school do, and I don't want to be the only un-cool one who doesn't, even though I am.)

"I'm really, really sorry, Mathieu," he says, looking like he means it. "Let's meet tonight, okay? I won't be sick this time. I'm done being sick. I'll be there, I promise."

" _You_ might be there, but Mattie _won't_ ," Alfred sneers, wrapping an arm protectively around me. Before Lars can reply, he marches us away.

" _Jerk_ ," Alfred mutters, and suddenly I'm torn.

I really want to be Lars' friend, but I like knowing that Alfred will never leave me. I don't want to make Alfred angry by going with Lars, so I let him lead us away.

Alfred is the one I choose.

* * *

At night, I lie awake in bed knowing that I should've been nicer to Lars and not let Alfred yell at him, because now my belly feels all knotted. But I can't risk upsetting Alfred, because Alfred is my only friend and I don't want to go back to being alone.

I see a shooting-star and wish that Alfred and Lars could be friends.

* * *

But they're not friends, they're rivals. I think.

Every time I see Lars on the playground, Alfred makes sure to block my view of him. He makes sure to take my hand, or hug me, or tell me a joke so I laugh, or pull me away to do or see something else. He always does it with a smile, like he's not trying to intervene— _intervene_ , Mr. Kirkland taught me that word—but I know he is. He does it on purpose, because he doesn't like Lars and doesn't want me to like him either, but I don't know why.

I think, maybe, Alfred and Lars don't get along because they're both really good at football and want to be the best in school. On track-and-field day, when we all have to be outside doing sports the whole afternoon—even though it's raining—Alfred and Lars get five blue ribbons each. It means they're both the best athletes in school, but neither of them looks happy about it, because they don't want to share being the best.

When Alfred goes to the loo, Lars shows me his ribbons and even offers to give me one, because he has lots at home, but I say no, thank-you, because I didn't earn it.

All around I can see the fifth grade girls watching us, because they all want Lars' attention, but he gives it to me instead. It makes me really happy. It makes me feel special in a good way, even though it singles me out, because Lars is at the centre-of-attention with me, so I'm not alone. Sometimes I feel alone when I'm with Alfred, because he has a short attention-span, but I never feel alone with Lars, because he only pays attention to me. I think the girls are probably upset because Lars is ten and I'm only eight, but I'm really close to being nine, so maybe it's okay?

Lars asks if I want to come to his house sometime, but Alfred shows up before I can decide, and then Alfred decides for me.

At home, I have tea and biscuits with Antonio and tell him all about track-and-field day. I tell him how cool Alfred is for winning so many events, and how I wish that he and Lars were friends, because then I could be friends with them both. I confess—like in a church—that I feel bad and wobbly when Alfred is mean to Lars, but Antonio isn't helpful. He just grins like the Cheshire cat from _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland_ , and says: "He's jealous."

Alfred, _jealous_ —?

Of what?

* * *

During the last week of school before summer holidays, Alfred and Lars get into a fight.

It's a fist fight, and everyone on the playground circles around them to watch, including me, but I don't chant with the others— _fight_ , _fight_ , _fight_ —because I don't want them to be fighting. I want them to be friends. I don't want to see them angry like this, like Gilbert when he gets into a fight with the tattooed men who live below us. It's okay when Gilbert does it, I think, because he's an adult (though Papa says it's still wrong), but Alfred and Lars are only nine and ten, and I don't like the things they're shouting at each other. I don't like when they tackle each other, punching and thumping and cracking, with scrunched faces and curled fists. I want someone to stop them, but nobody does, so I try. I push into the circle and grab the back of Alfred's blazer. I tug at him and beg him to stop, but I don't think he hears me, and then I'm on the ground because he accidentally shoves me. The fall rips my trousers and my knee is skinned and bleeding.

That's when Ivan shows up.

Ivan grabs Alfred and Lars by their upper-arms and pulls them easily apart, like chopsticks. He takes them to the vice-principal's office and nods for me to follow.

The vice-principal asks me why Alfred and Lars were fighting, and I say: "I don't know."

Mr. Kirkland comes to get Alfred, and Lars' father comes to get him. Mr. van den Berg is the biggest man I've ever seen—except for Ivan—and he speaks with an accent thicker than molasses. (That's something Mr. Kirkland likes to say, _thicker than molasses_.) I'm shocked, because I didn't know that Lars wasn't English. He doesn't have an accent and everyone really likes him, unlike me. Maybe he's the _right_ kind of foreign—? Like Alfred is the right kind because he's American, but I'm the wrong kind because I'm French?

I don't know.

My knee really hurts.

* * *

On my last day of third grade, Papa and I have to walk two extra blocks to get to school, because someone was beaten to death outside of our building and the police have it all blocked off.

He was beaten to death for being Polish instead of English. And I'm scared, because I don't understand.

I don't understand.

* * *

At the start of July, Alfred and I have a birthday party for both of us at his house, but Lars isn't invited.

I feel so guilty about not inviting him that I lie and tell him—at football in the park—that I didn't do anything special for my birthday, and I bring him a cupcake as a secret apology. Papa baked the cupcake, but I added the black licorice to the top because I know it's Lars' favourite treat.

Lars smiles and takes the cupcake and licks the frosting off his fingers, and says: "Happy birthday, Mathieu." Then he gives me a kiss.

I don't understand that either, but I like it much better.

* * *

P.S., Lars tells me later, "I really like your long hair."

* * *

I accidentally tell Papa that Lars kissed me, and he tells Gilbert and Antonio. " _Papa_!" I whine, because now they're all teasing me, because that's what they do when one of them has a new boyfriend.

"Lars isn't my boyfriend," I try to explain.

"Well, I certainly hope not!" Papa says. "Mathieu, I forbid you to date anyone before high-school!" But he's smiling when he says it, and Antonio laughs.

Gilbert makes a silly face, and says: "High-school? _Nein_! Mattie, you can't date before you're thirty, at least!"

Then he puts a hand over his heart, like I've hurt him, and says: "I thought you were going to marry me?" but I know he's teasing because he pouts like a goof.

I blush and tell him that I'm not ready to marry anyone yet, and Antonio winks at me, and says: "Smart, kid."

Once Papa and Gilbert and Antonio have got the silly out of their systems—that's another thing Mr. Kirkland says, usually to Alfred when he's had too much sugar—I finally tell them about Alfred and Lars and how I wish I didn't have to choose between them.

"Talk to Alfred," is their _unanimous_ —that means all together—advice. "Tell him how he's making you feel. He probably doesn't know it bothers you. I bet he'll change his mind if you ask."

"I don't think so," I say. Alfred makes all of our decisions. He's older and braver than me. But they don't give me better advice. They just say:

"He's your friend and he loves you, he doesn't want to make you unhappy."

"What if he gets mad?" I worry.

Papa's smile is kind. "Just remember how much you love Alfred, too," he says.

* * *

I do love Alfred. I hope he knows that.

Before he can drag me off somewhere public, I ask if I can tell him something important in private. I say to him "we need to talk", like an adult.

But I don't feel brave like an adult as I lead him across the park, away from where our parents sit. I can feel my heart pounding because I'm so nervous.

I let go of Alfred's hand and face him. "Al," I say, hoping he doesn't hate me, "I want you to stop being mean to Lars."

Alfred is puzzled, but he listens as I talk. He crosses his arms, which makes me even more nervous, but I've started now so I say it all. I tell him that I like Lars and want him to be our friend—not just _my_ friend, _our_ friend—and that it's not nice when Alfred bullies him. I tell him it makes me feel bad, and I admit to meeting with Lars behind his back. I tell him I'm sorry I kept it a secret, but I didn't want him to be angry. He cocks his head and frowns when I say this, but he doesn't interrupt me. I try to make Lars sound as likeable as possible and tell Alfred all of the best things about him—especially that Lars' family has a pool, because Alfred loves to swim—and I point out that if they were friends they wouldn't have to be rivals at school and compete to be the best athletes. I tell Alfred how cool it would be to have a friend in fifth grade—sixth grade, actually, because Lars will be eleven by September. I tell Alfred everything, except that Lars kissed me, because I want to keep that a secret for now.

Alfred waits until I'm finished to be upset. But it's not the upset I'm expecting, because it's not angry. It's sad.

He looks down at his trainers and _confesses_ that he doesn't want Lars to steal me away, because I'm _his_ best friend, not Lars'. He says he doesn't want us to be friends with Lars, because what if I end up liking Lars better than him? He says he's jealous of Lars, because Lars is so cool. (He doesn't use those exact words, but I'm good at reading _sulky Alfred_.) He says he's afraid of me choosing someone else, because he doesn't want to be alone.

I just stare at him, because— _what_?

 _Alfred_ feels alone? But he's always surrounded by people!

"You're my only _real_ friend, Mattie," he admits. "No one knows me like you do. You're the only person who's ever wanted to be my friend outside of school, the only person who's ever slept-over at my house. You're the only one who doesn't think it's lame that my Dad's a teacher, and the only person who wants to be on my team for things other than football. I like that we have so much fun together. And I like that I can actually talk to you and tell you secrets, because I know you won't tell anyone. I trust you, Mattie. You're, like, my lieutenant, you know?

"And I like that our dads are in love or whatever, because it's like... I don't know," he shrugs sheepishly, "it's like you're my little brother. And I... I've always wanted a brother.

"I don't want to share you with Lars."

 _He's jealous_ , Antonio's voice says in my memory. I didn't understand it then, but now I do.

It was _me_.

Alfred and Lars were fighting over _me_ , because they both wanted to be _my_ friend. Two of the coolest people I know want to be best friends with _me_!

Alfred is still looking down at his dirty trainers, so he doesn't see me move to hug him and jumps a bit when I do. Then he puts his arms around me and squeezes back really hard, like he might never let me go. It hurts a little, but I don't mind. I like knowing that he loves me as much as I love him.

I don't tell him that, though. Not in exactly those words.

"It doesn't matter who my friends are, Al," I promise him, "because you'll always be my brother."

* * *

In August, my promise actually comes true, because Papa asks Mr. Kirkland to marry him, and Mr. Kirkland says yes.

When they tell us, Alfred and I can't hide how happy we are, which makes Papa and Mr. Kirkland happy, too. Gilbert and Antonio both say they should "slow down", because they haven't even known each other for a year yet, but Papa and Mr. Kirkland don't care. They're happy and in love and want to get married, and Alfred and I want that, too, because when they do we'll be brothers for real.

Lars gives me his _condolences_ , but I know it's a joke, because he and Alfred are friends now—kind of. They still tease each other, but it's not mean anymore, and Alfred and I spend every weekend of the summer at Lars' house in the pool.

Lars' house is huge! Alfred and I both agree that he must be rich, because Lars has his own bedroom _and_ his own T.V. _and_ his father's old laptop _and_ more Lego than either one of us has ever seen. He says it's because his uncle works for Lego in a place called Billund—in Denmark—and his cousin, Mikkel, sends him all of the newest sets. Alfred and I think that's _wickedly cool_! so Lars gives us each a big bucket of Lego to take home, because he has so much of it. At home, Alfred and I talk about it and we agree that Lars' house is better than anyone else's that we know, and Alfred is glad that I made them be friends. (He doesn't say that, but he _implies_ it.)

Papa and Mr. Kirkland want to get married in September, after the school term starts again, but they don't.

They can't.

Because on my third day of fourth grade, something really horrible happens.

The most horrible thing in the world.

* * *

Gilbert and I are building a really complicated Lego star-ship when we hear Antonio scream.

"Stay here," he tells me, then runs out the door.

I'm left feeling nervous, because it's never good when someone in our building screams.

" _Someone call 999_!"

I run to the window to watch the police and ambulance arrive, but when they hurry past Gilbert's flat and go into ours next-door, my stomach drops.

I'm really scared, now. I want more than anything to know what's happening, but Gilbert told me to stay, so I do.

I don't cry until the door finally opens again and I see Gilbert's face. He doesn't say anything. He just scoops me into his arms and hugs me.

He doesn't have to explain.

I cry a lot, because I'm so, so scared.

"It's okay, _schatzi._ They took your Papa to the hospital. He's going to be okay," he says, but he doesn't sound like he believes it.

I don't believe him, either.

* * *

The tattooed men stabbed Papa.

They broke into our flat and stabbed him with a knife, because they hate him.

Why?

Why?

I don't know why.

* * *

I sit between Gilbert and Antonio in the hospital waiting-room. I feel cold— _numb_ —but tears still roll down my cheeks.

Gilbert's arm is wrapped around me.

Antonio's arms are crossed tight and his fingers dig into his coat, like his body might fall apart if he lets go.

Mr. Kirkland runs in to meet us. His green eyes are red and wet, like mine, but he's not numb. He yells at the nurses—I've never heard Mr. Kirkland yell before—until they let him through the white double doors to where Papa is.

Gilbert and Antonio and I wait.

And wait.

And wait.

A nurse asks us if we want anything. She asks me if I want hot chocolate, but I shake my head. Then she tells Antonio he can't smoke in the waiting-room, and he tells her " _que te den_ ". She gives him a warning.

Antonio sees me shivering and puts his coat on me, then gets up and goes outside, even though it's raining. When he comes back in, he's soaked and his clothes are stuck to his muscles, but he doesn't care. He paces back-and-forth, dripping puddles onto the tiled floor, but the nurse doesn't say anything.

Gilbert doesn't move. Not for hours. He stays with me, holding me.

I'm tired, but I don't sleep.

My heart hurts too much to sleep.

Finally, a tall, dark-skinned man in mint-coloured scrubs exits through the white doors, and nobody tells me, but I know he's the doctor because we stand up to meet him.

The doctor has a very kind face, but Gilbert and Antonio don't look at him kindly. Not until he says that Papa is _stable_ and in an _induced coma_ and will _probably be okay_.

Antonio's knees shake and he sits down and puts his head in his hands. He whispers something to himself in Spanish and kisses the cross around his neck, because it's his good-luck charm.

Gilbert's whole body relaxes and he smiles. "I told you, didn't I, Mattie?" he says, like he wasn't scared, too. "Your Papa's going to be okay."

"Can I see him?" I ask Gilbert, not the doctor.

And Gilbert—not the doctor—says: "Yeah."

Papa is in a _semi_ -private room with the curtains drawn around him. He's sleeping, lying on his back, and has tubes in his arm and a mask on his face. The blanket is pulled up to his chest, so I can't see where he got stabbed, but I notice that someone has taken his hair ribbon, and that seems important to me, because whoever took it should give it back, because it's Papa's ribbon and not theirs. Mr. Kirkland is sitting beside the bed. He has one hand hiding his face, like Antonio, but his other hand is interlaced with Papa's. When he sees me he gives me a tired smile and gestures for me to come sit with him. Even though I'm too big, I sit on Mr. Kirkland's lap and he holds me with one hand and Papa with the other.

I cry, and so does he, but we're both really quiet about it.

I'm really glad he's here.

* * *

I go to live with Alfred at Mr. Kirkland's house, except Mr. Kirkland is rarely there. He stays at the hospital with Papa, so Gilbert and Antonio stay with us instead.

Antonio packs ours lunches, and Gilbert drops us off and picks us up from school, and we spend the evenings playing video-games and watching films. They let us eat a lot of sugar and then regret it later when we won't go to bed. Gilbert and I finish building my Lego star-ship, and then Alfred breaks it by accident. Antonio teaches us how to make homemade pizza and plays his guitar every night, but the neighbours only complain about it once, because Antonio is "very charming", they say. Lovino and Feliciano come over once, and Lars comes over twice, and on the second time Gilbert takes us all to the arcade. So, even though I'm really worried about Papa and think about him a lot, I also have a lot of fun, because Gilbert and Antonio are great. They pretend to be an old married couple, which makes Alfred and I laugh until ginger-beer comes out our noses.

I don't ever go back to our flat.

Mr. Kirkland tells Gilbert and Antonio to pack all of Papa's and my things—all our _worldly possessions_ —and bring everything to his house, because Papa and I are going to live there, now. He tells them to do it during the day, when I'm at school, because he doesn't want me to ever go back there.

Because he's scared.

For a while, he's sad and angry and _paranoid_ and he won't let Alfred and I go anywhere alone. He holds our hands in public, even though we're ten and nine, and he kisses us both every time he leaves. Alfred says it's weird, but I like it because it reminds me of Papa, and I don't feel so homesick—Papa-sick?—with Mr. Kirkland here.

I see Papa twice more before he wakes up. When he does I hug him gently, because he's hurt, and he smiles and kisses me and is relieved that I'm okay. I ask him why I wouldn't be okay, but he doesn't answer. Instead, he tells me to be really good for Mr. Kirkland and really bad for Gilbert and Antonio, and then he says that he'll be better and ready to come home soon. I tell him that we don't live at home anymore, that we've moved-in with Mr. Kirkland and Alfred, and he smiles even more.

"Good," he says softly, cupping my cheek. "That's really good."

* * *

Gilbert and Antonio make fun of Papa when they see him at Mr. Kirkland's house:

"It's just a stab wound, Fran. Walk it off," says Gilbert.

"I hope you enjoyed all that beauty rest," says Antonio.

I don't think I'll ever understand the way they love each other, but Papa does, and he just smiles at them and thanks them for taking care of me.

Mr. Kirkland kisses him and makes him a cuppa tea, and Papa pretends to like it, even though he thinks Mr. Kirkland's tea is gross, because he loves that Mr. Kirkland made it for him.

Alfred and I tell Papa everything that Gilbert and Antonio did while he was in the hospital, and Gilbert and Antonio try to deny it, but they're both laughing, so we all laugh too. Then, instead of letting Mr. Kirkland cook supper for us, we order take-away from the place Lovino and Feliciano's grandfather owns, and then watch a superhero film together, so it's a really good night. Alfred and I go to bed in his room—it's _our_ room, now—and Papa sleeps with Mr. Kirkland, and Gilbert and Antonio sleep on the couches in the lounge, because none of us want to be away from Papa tonight.

In the morning, Mr. Kirkland kisses Papa's stubbled cheek, and so do I, because a little part of me thought he would die in the night, away from the beeping hospital machines, and I wouldn't even know because I'd been asleep. But he's not dead. He's alive and he's smiling and I'm really glad he is, because even though I have Mr. Kirkland and Alfred and Gilbert and Antonio, losing Papa would be the worst thing in the world.

He's still my favourite person. I think he always will be.

"I love you, Papa," I whisper in his ear.

"I love you, too, Mathieu," he says.

* * *

I still don't know why people do terrible things. I still don't know why being different isn't okay. I still don't know why there are such mean people in the world, because it's not okay. It hurts. Sometimes it hurts just as much to be bullied by words as it does to be stabbed. And why? Why do people do it? Why do people want to hurt each other so much?

WHY?

I don't think I'll ever understand.

I just know that it's not okay.

It's not okay that there are so many people in the world full of hate.

But I think most people are full of love, and that makes me believe that everything will be okay.

* * *

I'm nine-and-a-half, now. I'm in fourth grade, and Lars van den Berg is my best friend.

(I kissed him on his eleventh birthday, but that's a secret, because I have to wait until I'm in high-school to date.)

Abigail and Liza are in my class again and they still hate me for some reason. They make fun of my long hair, but I don't care, because the boys on our football team don't seem to mind. They think it's cool how fast I can run, and they invite me to things now, even if Alfred can't go. And I always invite the new kid along, too, because I know how awful it is to be alone. He's in my class and he's from Australia. Alfred and I both really like him, so he spends a lot of weekends at our house.

It's _our_ house now, because our parents are married and we all live together. They got married in November, then we went to Scotland on holiday so Papa and I could meet our new British family. (Uncle Scott is weird, but really fun.)

Alfred is my big brother, now. And I have my own bedroom filled with Lego.

Gilbert and Antonio are still two of my favourite people, even though Antonio teases me about Lars. He still brings Lovino and Feliciano around, and Gilbert still takes us all to Hyde Park to go ice-skating on Christmas holiday.

Papa has to go to court to _testify_ against the tattooed men who stabbed him, but otherwise he's really happy. He smiles all the time, and sometimes he sings. He got a new job at a ritzy restaurant, so now he's a _chef_ again and not just a _cook_. And he really loves Mr. Kirkland.

Mr. Kirkland isn't my teacher anymore, but that's okay, because now he's my Dad. And that's what I call him.

I really love him, too.

I like everything about my life in England now, and I don't miss France at all—not even the sun.

It still rains every day in London, but it's not grey anymore. Not to me. Now it's my home, the place where I have a Dad and a brother and Papa is always smiling.

Now, the rainy days are my favourites.

I really, _really_ want to play hockey this winter, but no one else does, so I'm stuck playing football.

"Oh well," Gilbert shrugs when I tell him. He ruffles my curls. "That's life, Mattie, you can't have everything."

* * *

 **FIN**

 **THANK-YOU for reading. Reviews are always welcome and appreciated :)**


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